


If I Break My Pact

by ScribeofArda



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Burning the plans goes sideways, But you know they're already a little in love, Discussions of death and expecting to die, Gaby is so done with the both of them, Graphic Description of Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Nobody Dies, Pre-Relationship, The boys are idiots but they're idiots together, but it gets close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29719368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: Illya looks back out over the balcony, across the city to the sea. A few birds wheel overhead. Somewhere a bell starts ringing. “You don’t have to stay. There are worse places.”“If you are going to die, then I’m not letting you die alone,” Napoleon replies. “Besides, I’m not giving up. Just trying another avenue.” He studies the magic sluggishly curling still around Illya’s body. “Why did you do this?”“Do what?” Illya asks. His face is pale, even in the bright Mediterranean sun. He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, turning his face into it.“Burn the plans. When you knew this might happen.” Illya flinches slightly, and Napoleon hums. “When you knew this would happen. Is this worth dying for?”Illya flinches again. “No one can have those plans. And I knew it would end like this eventually. This is a better place than I thought I would have.” He breathes steadily, hand clenching into fists as his body spasms. “It was worth it,” he says quietly.Napoleon whistles. “Christ, Peril. Way to point out that compared to you, I have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair.”
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	If I Break My Pact

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you daydream during a boring day at work and don't want to work on the other wip that you're stuck on. Also I've been prepping and running a mini-arc for my dnd group and thinking A Lot about fantasy mechanics and types of magic, and this vague idea has been floating around in my head for a while until I finally got it down onto paper. At the moment it's going to probably stay as just a oneshot, but I do have some more written on it and further ideas in my head, so subscribe and watch this space!
> 
> Content warnings for graphic descriptions of injuries that are presumed to be fatal (they aren't), and mentions of torture and dissection.

It’s his eyes that give him away.

A few days ago, Napoleon would have instinctively looked to the brand first, if  _ brand _ is the right description for the permanent reminder from Moscow’s pet horror of its ownership on Illya’s skin, one that skitters across his face when he’s angry and curls up around his wrist where his father’s watch should sit when he’s nervous. That’s what caught his attention on the streets of Berlin. But in the days since then, their frantic scramble across Italy, he’s learned better.

In Rudi’s torture chamber, Illya’s eyes had  _ glowed _ . Now, Napoleon watches in his shaving mirror as the normal silver sheen of his weird brand of magic, just visible underneath the blue, begins to glimmer red.

His own, restless with the form he’s been held in for far too long, shivers underneath his skin. With a quick flick of his wrist Napoleon pulls his cuff down, just as the runes of his collar around his wrist flash a dull rust-brown. He breathes through the accompanying pressure at the back of his head, the feeling of iron pressing him back down into his skin. It’s a reflex that’s never going to go away, but it’s an easy tell, and Illya doesn’t need to see it.

There’s a gun, hidden just under a neatly-folded waistcoat on the bed. Napoleon marks its position as he continues to slowly pack his suitcase, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Illya. His hand is trembling ever so slightly at his side.

Napoleon throws an idle question over his shoulder as he turns back to his suitcase, facing away from Illya. A moment of concentration and he pushes past that horrible pressure at the back of his head and the sudden tightening around his wrist, the runes pulsing, and he Shifts his eyes.

When he opens them again, the room is in chaos.

Illya’s magic lashes out around him. He can see the edges of it now, darkness coalescing and then flickering out of view as it writhes through the air, the entire room shimmering under the heat-haze of magic barely under control. Napoleon risks a glance in the shaving mirror, quick enough that Illya can’t see the way his pupils have widened to almost fill his eyes with the Shift.

Illya is staring at his back. His hand twitches and the magic around the room reacts, coiling and writhing in what looks almost like pain, if Napoleon didn’t know any better. His eyes are almost all red. The brand is curling up around his cheek now, a dead giveaway as to what’s to come.

Napoleon eyes the gun again, shifting the waistcoat just enough to reach the butt of the pistol. Illya will be expecting magic. Expecting Napoleon to turn with a rune already half-sketched in the air, a word on his lips that will set the room alight. Not with a bullet.

His hand hovers over the grip. A tendril of Illya’s strange, eldritch magic appears as a dark smear in the air, curling gently around his wrist and then being yanked away again.

Napoleon shuts his eyes, and prays to a god he definitely doesn’t believe in that he’s making the right decision.

“Almost forgot. Got something for you.”

He turns, and tosses a watch across the room.

The magic seizes. The room roars around him, darkness flashing in and out of existence. Nausea quickly rises at the back of his throat, but before it can gain a foothold the magic is suddenly yanked  _ back _ , rising like a tide until it’s almost swallowing Illya whole, writhing around his body as he puts his father’s watch back on with shaking hands.

Illya looks up at him and swallows. A tendril of magic reaches up and caresses his throat, curling around it as he speaks. “You know what my mission is?”

“Same as mine was,” Napoleon replies. He blinks, and pulls his eyes back to his normal form. “Kill me, if necessary. To get that.” He nods at the plans, sitting neatly on his bed.

Illya swallows again. Napoleon almost fancies that he can still see his magic, the strange powers that Moscow’s eldritch horror has granted him an uneasy haze settled over him. “What do we do now?”

Napoleon picks up the plans and tosses them in one hand. “Well. I don’t want my people getting hold of any of this. Far too dangerous to be out there in the world, and I’ve already survived one world war. Don’t fancy my chances at another. I presume you feel the same about your lot?”

Illya is staring intently at the plans in Napoleon’s hands. He takes a step forward, one hand wrapped around his other wrist where his father’s watch now sits. His eyes are literally flickering; pale red one moment and silver the next. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yes,” he says, his voice thick. “They- they cannot have it. No one can have it.”

“So, what do we do with it?”

Illya swallows again. The brand, dark abstract lines blurring into cryllic into patterns that Napoleon can’t make out before they change again, presses up higher underneath his chin. “Burn it.”

He’s already moving as the words leave his mouth, throwing open the doors to the balcony. Napoleon follows him, plans in hand, to find him emptying out the half-full ashtray onto the balcony table. “Here,” he says. “Use this.”

There’s an urgency to his voice that instinctively has Napoleon’s abilities rising, restrained uneasily beneath his skin by that goddamned collar. The urge to Shift, to change forms and slip into the crowd, takes a moment to settle, and by that time Illya has set the ashtray down and is digging in his pockets for a lighter.

Napoleon cracks the case open and pulls out the tape, unspooling it into his hands. “There’s no rush, Peril,” he says as Illya’s movements turn almost frantic. “Nobody is going to come look for us for a bit.”

Illya doesn’t reply. He swallows heavily, finally pulling a lighter out of a pocket. Napoleon tips the tapes into the ashtray and waves one hand at Illya. “Do the honours.”

Illya flicks the lighter. A flame catches, and then sputters out. He tries again, and again, until his hands are shaking too much for the lighter to even stay steady. Illya curses under his breath, his words stumbling over each other. His eyes are solid silver now, barely any blue visible underneath.

Napoleon reaches out carefully. Illya flinches at his touch, nearly dropping the lighter. “Easy, Peril,” Napoleon says, gentling his voice. “Take a breath. We’re doing the right thing.”

The flame sputters out again. The haze of his magic seems to curl around them both now, the air thin. Napoleon changes tactics. He tips the tape out of the ashtray, scrawls a haphazard rune on the bottom and gives it a nudge with the tip of his finger. It flares to life, heat emanating from the crystal as he sets it back down. “That should do it,” he says. He gestures to Illya. “Your contribution, Peril?”

When he looks up, Illya is staring back at him with silver eyes. His brand is curling in loops around his neck, twisting over itself, again and again. “You’re sure?” Illya asks quietly.

Napoleon nods. He’ll lament the tightening of his collar at another time. He knows this is the only thing they can do. “Certain. You?”

Illya looks down at the tape. He picks it up, weighing it in his hand as the breeze catches it and nearly sends it scattering over the table before his fingers close on it. He studies it for a long moment, and then tips it into the ashtray.

It lights instantly. The tape blackens and curls in on itself, twisting in the small flames that lick up around it. Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Well, that was easy. What do you say, Peril, a drink to celebrate our little act of treason?”

Illya makes a choking noise next to him. Napoleon reaches for two tumblers and the whiskey decanter. “A little tasteless, I know, but we’ve got to have our fun whilst it lasts. Right, Peril?”

Illya says nothing. Suit himself. Napoleon pours a couple fingers in each glass and holds one out over his shoulder. After a few seconds, he shakes it in Illya’s direction. “Peril?”

There’s a thump from behind him. Napoleon turns, and the tumbler slips out of his hand to shatter on the balcony floor.

Illya is slumped back against the wall. One hand is clutching at his throat, his brand twisting over itself around his neck, faster and faster until it blurs into solid black. His face is pale, except for the bruise slowly blooming across his jaw. As Napoleon watches, a cut slowly opens up across his cheek from nothing, his skin splitting and blood beginning to drip down to stain the collar of his shirt.

“Illya!”

Napoleon starts forwards, grabbing his arms as he suddenly lists sideways. The cut across his cheek is steadily dripping blood now, the bruise blooming bright purple across his skin. Illya staggers, his legs going from underneath him, and it’s only Napoleon suddenly grabbing at him that keeps him vaguely upright.

“Peril. Illya. What’s wrong?” Napoleon props him up. “Talk to me, Illya. What the hell is going on?”

Illya’s gaze meets his. The normal bright silver sheen to his eyes is dull, dimming moment by moment. He’s gasping for air, one hand still clutching his throat. The heat-haze surrounds them both now, ripping breath out of Napoleon as he frantically searches for whatever the hell is causing this. His fingers twist, tracing runes into the air, but they sputter out against the heavy press of Illya’s magic. “What the  _ fuck _ is happening to you?” Napoleon snaps. “ _ Illya _ .”

Illya’s legs finally give out from underneath him, and Napoleon can only just stop him sprawling in a heap on the floor. He casts again, spreading a snare around them, but no traces of curses. Nothing suddenly ringing in his ears. Another spell, finely focused to try and penetrate the heaviness around Illya, but there’s nothing. No foreign magic beyond their own.

Illya tips his head back against the wall. He slides down. A red streak of blood leaves a trail behind him. “Cowboy.”

Napoleon crouches down. “I’m here, Peril.” He pulls his shirt open roughly, buttons scattering off across the tiles. There’s more bruising blooming as he watches across Illya’s side, a jagged gash slowly opening, inch by inch, across his skin below it. Wounds in reverse, slowly beginning to rise up from the body’s memory and spill out across his skin, gathering momentum with every second. Napoleon presses down, hard. Illya lets out a pained grunt, spasming slightly under his grip.

Napoleon curses. He pushes the Shift through again on his eyes, pupils expanding against the pressure in his head.

Illya’s magic is leeching away from him. Sloughing off him like dead flesh from a wound, pooling around him and wrapping tighter and tighter with every new wave that falls. With each one, it leaves a mark behind. Rips open his skin, the dark tendrils almost completely obscuring the blood.

“ _ Fuck _ .”

This is bad.

Every young soldier that was shot down beside him in the war swims in front of his vision.

He’s learned since then.

“Pull your magic in,” Napoleon says between gritted teeth. “Come on, Illya, pull it in just a little. I’m no doctor, but I can slow this down. I just need to get through.”

Illya locks eyes with him, and nods. “Ready?” Napoleon asks. His hands are covered in blood already, and he uses it to trace runes across Illya’s chest, his finger dragging over his skin. He’s exhausted so much of his reserves today in their assault on the fortress, that desperate chase and then making sure that the Vinciguerras were very much dead, but he summons up everything he can possibly draw upon and pushes it to the tips of his fingers. “Three, two, one,  _ now _ .”

Illya tenses. The magic roils around him, and a thin gap appears. Napoleon shoves through, pressing his fingertips to the final rune and  _ pushing _ .

For a few moments, nothing happens. Then the dripping of blood slows. The wounds don’t close up, but the bruises stop spreading. Illya’s head falls back against the wall as he breathes out. His magic turns sluggish, slowly falling from him in drips. “Better?” Napoleon asks.

Illya hums. “Right,” Napoleon says. He kneels there, on the bloody floor, and stares at Illya in horror. “What the  _ fuck _ is going on? Something is seriously wrong with your magic.”

“The plans have been burned,” Illya rasps. “It’s fine. You can go.”

“Like hell I am,” Napoleon replies. “At the very least, you owe me a fucking explanation.”

Illya squeezes his eyes shut. “What can be given,” he gets out, “can be taken away again. I...I disobeyed.”

Napoleon blinks. “You...disobeyed. By burning the plans?” Illya nods, swallowing heavily. “And your magic is conditional on you following orders?” Another nod. Napoleon breathes out, trying to quell the itch beneath his skin. “Okay. So this is...what, punishment? I’ve seen your magic heal you before, you literally spat a bullet out yesterday. Why isn’t it working now?”

Illya shrugs. “I...my magic puts me back together. If it is gone...” He squeezes his eyes shut again, his breath hitching before it smooths back out. “It is fine. I knew.”

It takes a second to fall into place in Napoleon’s head. “You  _ knew _ this was going to happen?”

Illya nods.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Napoleon spits. He sits back for a moment, thinking hard. “Okay. Okay, we can fix this. I’ll...Gaby can help us. Waverly can help us, he fucking  _ owes _ us, quite frankly.” He reaches forwards and grabs Illya’s arm. “Come on, give me a hand. Let’s get you up.”

Illya doesn’t move. “Come  _ on _ , Illya,” Napoleon snaps, getting to his feet and trying to pull Illya with him. “That stasis isn’t going to hold for long. We don’t have much time before you’re bleeding out again on the floor.” He tugs at Illya again.

“Leave it,” Illya rasps. He slumps back against the wall. “There’s no point.”

“Illya!”

Illya shakes his head. “You’ve done enough, Cowboy. You can go. I’m fine here.”

“You’ll  _ die  _ here,” Napoleon snaps.

“I know,” Illya says. He looks up at Napoleon, his eyes dull. “You can go, Cowboy.”

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” Napoleon spits. “I’m not fucking leaving you here to  _ die _ .” He heaves a breath, his eyes suddenly stinging. “I won’t leave you here to die alone.”

He crouches down next to Illya, brushing one hand over the runes across his chest. They’re being eaten up at a remarkable pace, already half-burnt through. They have maybe minutes.

Illya glances over at him. “You are giving in very easy. That’s not the American way.” He looks back out over the balcony, across the city to the sea. A few birds wheel overhead. Somewhere a bell starts ringing. “You don’t have to stay. There are worse places.”

“If you are going to die, then I’m not letting you die alone,” Napoleon replies. “Besides, I’m not giving up. Just trying another avenue.” He studies the magic sluggishly curling still around Illya’s body. “Why did you do this?”

“Do what?” Illya asks. His face is pale, even in the bright Mediterranean sun. He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, turning his face into it.

“Burn the plans. When you knew this might happen.” Illya flinches slightly, and Napoleon hums. “When you knew this  _ would _ happen. Is this worth dying for?”

Illya flinches again. “No one can have those plans. And I knew it would end like this eventually. This is a better place than I thought I would have.” He breathes steadily, hand clenching into fists as his body spasms. “It was worth it,” he says quietly.

Napoleon whistles. “Christ, Peril. Way to point out that compared to you, I have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair.”

Illya laughs, the sound choked. “Inferior American blood, Cowboy.”

His face is even paler than it was before. Napoleon presses two fingers to his pulse. It’s fast and thready, hard to feel under the haze of magic still clinging to him. “Are you in pain?”

Illya opens his eyes to glare at him. “What do you think?”

Napoleon holds his hands up. “Don’t bite my head off just for asking.” He hesitates. “I can...I can help with that. If you would like. It’s not manipulation,” he says quickly when he can see the objection rising in Illya. “It’s nothing like that. Just a...suggestion. With a tiny bit of power behind it. Take your mind off it.”

Illya is already shaking his head. Napoleon remembers the text in his file, the neatly-stamped  _ resistant to arcanist manipulation _ . There’s only one method for training that.

“If I am...if I am dying here,” Illya says after a long moment, staring out at the brilliant blue of the sea, “I will do it under my own mind.”

“Fair enough, Peril,” Napoleon says, his voice gentling. He checks the runes again. Still just holding on. “Fair enough.” He checks his pulse again, and the wounds still open across his skin. “What were your orders? Precisely, word for word.”

Illya grimaces. “Retrieve the plans. If necessary, kill you for them.”

Napoleon hums, staring blankly at the floor as he thinks. “Well, at least you’re not disobeying if I’m still alive. That’s a start.” He pauses, and then scrambles away from Illya to grab the ashtray from the table. It’s still gently smoking. He uncurls one of Illya’s hands and presses it into his palm. “You have them. You had the plans in your hand, earlier. You had hold of them. Does it matter how you got them? Does it matter what happened to them after you had them in your hand?”

He concentrates on Illya’s pulse. It smooths out for a second, and then jumps again. Illya groans. “Are you trying to loophole me out of this?”

“I’m trying to tell you that you didn’t disobey your orders,” Napoleon retorts. “You did what was asked of you. You retrieved the plans. They never  _ explicitly _ told you to bring them back to Moscow.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “It is implied.”

“Will you fucking work with me here?” Napoleon snaps. He can feel his form stretching, iron clamping down on him as something deep within him writhes in his core, feeding off his steadily rising fear beginning to crawl up his throat. “I’m trying to stop you fucking bleeding out in front of me, you asshole!”

“You don’t have to stay,” Illya spits back at him. “Leave. I can die alone.”

“How many times do I have to say it to get it through your thick head?  _ I’m not leaving you!” _

Those last words come out at a yell that catches even him off guard. Napoleon heaves a breath, and doesn’t look away from Illya, who is staring at him with wide eyes. “Either we’ll work out a way around this, or I’ll stay here until you’re gone,” he tells him.

“You don’t have to-”

“Illya.” Napoleon reaches out and cups the back of his neck until Illya looks up at him. “I’m staying.”

Illya slumps back, his eyes slipping shut. Even that small burst of energy seems to have exhausted him. He swallows, his throat working underneath the thick black of his brand. Napoleon’s thumb brushes against the edge of it. There’s no change to the brand, but he sees a tendril of Illya’s magic slowly reach up for his hand, like a plant seeking sunlight. It curls around his thumb and sits there.

“Are there others?” Napoleon asks. “Like you?” Illya hesitates, and Napoleon rolls his eyes. “You’re literally dying, according to you. Don’t spend the last few minutes of it being a stubborn asshole.”

Illya cracks an eye open and glares at him. “Why are you so insistent on this? At least let me die in peace.”

Napoleon ignores the hammering of his heart and the desperate urge to  _ change _ . “When have you ever known me to do anything peaceful?” he says instead.

Illya grunts. “Point.”

“You’ve been around for centuries, right?” Napoleon asks. “Not you specifically, but your kind. You’re not the first.” Illya shakes his head. “You can’t have all followed all the orders given to you, at all times,” Napoleon hazards. “That’s centuries of serving Moscow. What happens if your handlers are corrupt? If they themselves go against orders from on high? There must be someone before you who has disobeyed and survived.”

Illya is silent for a long moment, before shifts against the wall with a grimace. “The revolution. The Tsar ordered us- the ones before me- to suppress an uprising. Thousands would have been slaughtered. They turned on him. I don’t know how.”

Napoleon checks the runes again. A minute left, if that. “You must know  _ something _ ,” he says desperately. He tries to push more into the runes, but he has little to begin with, and what he does have doesn’t take. “Come on, Illya. Anything.” He tries to remember anything he has heard whispered about what lies below Moscow, the terrors there, the people who are bound to it. The stories that his people share between themselves, warnings for a species always under attack of another horror to avoid. Most whisper about the power they seek, the raw magic granted to them at the cost of their lives, now forever controlled by those stalking the marble halls of the Kremlin.

Illya, he is sure, never seeked the power. Napoleon is almost certain that it was loyalty that drove him.

A thought sparks. “Illya. Hey, Peril, look at me.” He taps at Illya’s cheek. “How did you bind yourself to...to your abilities? These sorts of things, they come with oaths, yes? With a pact?”

Illya frowns. “I swore myself to it. Bound myself. I chose it. What else is there?”

“What did you  _ say _ ?” Napoleon asks. “The exact words. Come on, Peril. There’s got to be  _ something _ here. How did they override the Tsar? Why did it take the order to slaughter innocents to do so? You have broken before. You have  _ disobeyed _ before and survived. It’s not impossible. We know it’s not impossible.”

“Maybe for someone else,” Illya mutters.

Napoleon slaps him.

“Get a  _ fucking grip, _ ” he snarls. “You’re the scariest person I have  _ ever _ met, these past few days have been the best ever since I was collared, and you’re so fucking loyal to your country that you just committed treason to  _ save it. _ ” He grips Illya’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You have more work to do, Illya. You have so much more work to do.”

Illya stares up at him. His eyes flare silver, and then he convulses as the runes on his chest burn up to nothing. Blood spills out of his mouth. “Cowboy,” he rasps.

“Your  _ pact _ ,” Napoleon says firmly, laying everything he has into the command. “ _ Tell me _ .”

Illya gasps for breath. “I, son of the motherland, swear to serve her and her people until my dying breath. I swear to follow my leaders in her protection. I swear to fight for her to the last drop of blood. If I break this pact, I forfeit myself to her judgement and her mercy. On my life, this I swear.”

There is blood, fresh blood, soaking into Napoleon’s trousers. He grips Illya, keeping him from keeling over onto his side. “Illya,” he says desperately. “ _ Illya _ . You didn’t break your pact.”

Illya’s gaze flickers to him. His eyes are barely open. “Cowboy?”

“ _ You didn’t break it, _ ” Napoleon repeats, his words stumbling over each other with how quickly he is trying to talk, before Illya bleeds out completely. “Those plans would have started a war. You know what either side would have done with them, you  _ know _ it would have ended with people dying. You served your country. You burned those plans  _ knowing _ you would die for it. That’s not treason. What Oleg was going to do is treason, what he had planned would have brought Russia to its knees in a war that would have slaughtered thousands.”

It must be his imagination that the sheen to Illya’s eyes is growing stronger. “You quite literally are fighting to your last drop of blood,” Napoleon says, his voice softening. “You are protecting your country from people who would seek to ruin her for their own power. She has never had a more loyal son.”

Illya’s breath hitches. “Come on, Illya,” Napoleon whispers. “Come on. Hold on. You did the right thing. You did it even knowing it would kill you. For that, you will be shown mercy.”

He has to be.

He can’t lose Illya. He won’t.

Seconds pass, accompanied only by the drip of blood onto the floor. Illya’s breath rasps in his throat. He reaches out, grasping clumsily at Napoleon’s arm. Napoleon takes his hand and holds onto it, not looking away from him even as his eyes blur, and not just from the magic still writhing around him. He’s not leaving. He promised.

Seconds more pass, and then more. Napoleon doesn’t take his eyes away from Illya’s face.

It stretches out to a minute. Illya is still breathing.

Napoleon watches as ever so slowly, the cut on his cheek begins to pinch together at the edges. The constant  _ drip drip _ of blood onto tiles slows. Illya’s eyes flare, and then the silver holds steady beneath the blue.

Illya takes a cautious breath. And then another.

Napoleon laughs. “ _ Illya _ . Oh my god, Illya.”

“Cowboy.” Illya presses his free hand to his chest, his eyes sliding shut. His magic soars around him, rising and swirling high above before cresting, vines stretching out across the sky with what feels like pure joy. It hangs there for a moment, and then slowly subsides, sinking back down into him. He opens his eyes again, bright silver behind blue, and smiles helplessly. “ _ Cowboy _ .”

Napoleon grips the back of his neck and pulls him in until their foreheads touch. “Knew you had it in you, Peril.”

Illya huffs a laugh. “You bluffed all of that. You had no idea if it would work.”

“Well, it did.” Napoleon pulls back and sits back with a soft laugh. “How are you feeling?”

Illya thinks about it for a moment. “Tired,” he says eventually. He leans back against the wall. “Really tired.”

Napoleon glances around them. “Well, you have lost a fair few pints of blood. This is going to be a bitch to clean up, you know. And I’m never getting it out of my clothes.”

“Peacock,” Illya snorts. “They are just clothes.” His breath hitches slightly, and he winces. Napoleon immediately leans forwards.

“Peril?” He studies his magic for a few moments, the slowly closing wounds. “Still good?”

Illya grunts. “Hurts a bit,” he admits. He leans his head back against the wall with a sigh. “It will pass.”

“I’m completely tapped now, else I would help.” Napoleon shifts to sit next to him, props him up against his own side. He doesn’t let go of Illya’s hand, their fingers laced together and resting on Illya’s outstretched leg. “You need a nap, that’s what you need. A shower, and then a nap.”

Illya hums. “A drink first.” Napoleon immediately goes to get up, but Illya tugs him back down. “In a minute.”

“Sure.” They sit in silence for a few moments, Illya’s grip occasionally tightening on Napoleon’s hand. The sun is bright overhead, making Napoleon wince. He’s reluctant to Shift his eyes back, though, not until he’s certain that Illya is going to be okay. The blood underneath him has soaked into every inch of his trousers, slick underneath his shoes as he pushes himself more upright against the wall, but he’s too exhausted to care.

Illya’s magic is quiet now. It curls around him, smoothing over his skin as it slowly closes, the bruises fading back into nothing. Occasionally a tendril reaches out for Napoleon, wrapping around his wrist or merely stroking over the back of his hand. If his magic could make a sound, Napoleon half thinks that he would be purring.

"Waverly better have some job opportunities for us," Napoleon eventually says. He eyes the thin spiral of smoke rising from the ashtray. "We have rather burned some bridges. Sanders is going to love this as an excuse to tighten the collar, if not, but I can live with that." He looks over at Illya. "It was worth it."

Illya glances over at Napoleon. “Does it hurt?” he asks. His thumb skims over the inside of Napoleon’s wrist, where the runes sit underneath his skin. “Staying in one shape for so long.”

“Form, not shape,” Napoleon corrects. “And not usually. Most of the time, it is just...an itch under my skin. I can ignore it. It only hurts when I try to push a Shift through, and that depends on how big it is. I can still get away with some things.”

Illya nods. He glances over at him. “Your eyes,” he says hesitantly. “They- that is a shift?”

“It’s a bit creepy, I know,” Napoleon replies with a quiet laugh. “But I can see a wider spectrum like this. I can make out your magic. Not all of it, just the edges, but enough that it could help.”

Illya stares at him. “What does it look like?”

Napoleon thinks. When he first saw him in Berlin, chasing down him and Gaby, he had been scared. He had watched magic unlike anything he has ever seen explode out from this creature, and for the first time in a long time there was a small voice in the back of his head, asking just how invulnerable he really was.

If someone had asked him back then, he would have said it looked like something out of a nightmare.

If they had asked him when he was strapped to Rudi's chair, staring at his waiting place in the book only to see tendrils curling around the door and rising up over Rudi's shape, perfectly still and waiting for their command, he would have said it looked like salvation.

"It's…green," he says instead, his voice softening as he sees Illya's eyes go wide. "Very dark, but not black like I first thought. No, the edges that I can see are like the dark green of a pine forest. Alive." He meets Illya's gaze. "It's beautiful."

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon isn’t quite sure how Gaby and Waverly expected to find them, but it’s certainly not like this. When he hears Gaby call for him from the hotel room door, he doesn’t have time to do much more than pull Illya’s shirt closed where he had torn it open and poke him in the side to wake him up before the two of them appear in the balcony door.

“Dear God!” Waverly exclaims. Gaby freezes for a moment, and then drops down beside Illya, mouth hanging open in horror as she presses two fingers to his neck.

“Ah,” Napoleon says, eyeing Gaby carefully. Illya is still mostly asleep, taking his time to come round, and he knows that Gaby only has Illya’s best interests at heart at this moment, but he can’t help looking at her and remembering a lone lightbulb and straps holding him down. Something strange skitters beneath his skin, urging him to pull Illya back behind him.

Well, that’s new.

Napoleon pushes it to the back of his mind. Waverly and Gaby are both staring at him now. “It’s not what it looks like?” he tries.

“My boy, I wouldn’t even begin to try and guess what this is,” Waverly remarks. “Would you care to explain?”

Illya shifts next to him, his hand tightening where he’s still holding Napoleon’s. “Peril?” Napoleon says, ducking his head close. “Time to wake up. We have some mildly concerned people here wondering why we’re sitting in about half of your body’s blood.”

“More like a third,” Illya mutters. He sits up with a groan, free hand pressing against his head as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Ow. How long-”

“A few minutes, that’s all.” Napoleon nudges him. “Gaby and Waverly are here.”

That makes Illya’s eyes snap open. He flinches when he sees Gaby crouched down next to him, pressing back ever so slightly into Napoleon’s side. “Watch your trousers, Gaby,” Napoleon says mildly. “We’re beyond saving, but no point in you getting covered in all this blood as well.”

Gaby shifts back. “What the  _ hell _ happened?”

“First things first.” Napoleon sits up away from the wall and stares directly at Waverly. “Why are you here? Sir.”

Waverly arches a brow. “I’m curious as to how that takes precedence, but I will answer. Your handlers have agreed to keep this little team together for a while longer. Think of it as a loan, for the foreseeable future.”

Illya glances over at Napoleon. “That could work,” Napoleon offers.

He can see the hesitancy in Illya’s expression. “Honestly, we’ve not got much to lose right now, Peril,” he says in answer. “Burnt a whole lot of bridges.” He turns back to Waverly. “What exactly did Oleg say to you in this handover? I don’t care about Sanders, he can rot in hell for all I care. What did Oleg say?”

“A lot of things about diplomacy and ensuring the cooperation of all nations,” Waverly says, with a pointed glance at the discarded ashtray, still smoking gently. “And then he told me that Kuryakin remains a loyal soldier of the motherland, but is being placed under my command, until such time as Moscow reclaims him.” He turns to Illya. “I am sure Oleg will have more to say to you, the next time you speak. But you are on loan to me and my agency, and as such you are expected to follow the orders that I give.” He glances between the two of them. “Will that suffice?”

“Peril?” Napoleon asks quietly.

Illya thinks for a moment. “I can work with that,” he says eventually. He looks up at Waverly. “If Oleg handed...command to you, then there is little I can do about it.”

Waverly looks unexpectedly grave. “I can promise you, Kuryakin, that I will endeavour to deserve the trust that has been placed in me.”

Illya snorts. “Pretty words,” he mutters. “We’ll see if they hold true. Cowboy?”

“Hey, as long as I’m not imprisoned further, then I’m good.” Napoleon thuds his head back against the wall, glancing down at his wrist, his hand still in Illya’s. “This blood is getting really gross. I’m sending you the drycleaning bill, by the way.”

“I’ll burn them for you,” Illya mutters with a snort. “You are buying me new shirt, then.”

“Oh, I’ll just go down to the department store and buy another pack of shirts for three dollars,” Napoleon snarks. “Or maybe I can use this opportunity to get you some  _ real _ clothes. A  _ tailored shirt _ .”

“Make me your mannequin and I will throw you off this balcony.”

Gaby makes a frustrated noise, one that almost makes Napoleon jump. He’d honestly forgotten she was there. “Will one of you tell me what the  _ fuck has happened here _ ?”

Napoleon glances at Illya, to find him already looking over at him. “As much as you want,” he says softly. “Unless you want me to-”

“I think he already knows,” Illya says, with a pointed look over at Waverly. “But yes, I will explain. Inside. Without all this blood.”

“Ah.” Waverly pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here. Let me.”

Napoleon eyes it. “No offence, but I think we’re going to need more than a handkerchief.”

That makes Waverly smile. “It is a little more than that.” He mutters a few words under his breath, and then holds it out. “Just touch it across your skin, and it should do the job.”

Napoleon takes it first. There’s a small flash, a faint smell of copper, and the sensation of a cool breeze over his skin. He looks down. His hands, previously red up to his wrists, are scoured clean. Even his trousers are clean and dry, though in dire need of pressing.

Illya snatches it out of his hands, and Napoleon watches the blood dry up into dust and then dissipate within moments. Illya grunts. “That’s useful.”

“Limited uses, I’m afraid.” Waverly nods towards the balcony doors. “Shall we?”

Napoleon’s legs have gone numb, and he has to lean against the wall for a few moments, shaking feeling back into them with a wince. Illya is still sat on the floor, slowly flexing his legs. “All put back together?” he asks.

“More or less,” Illya replies. He pushes up from the floor with one hand, getting to his knees and then pausing for a moment. Napoleon catches the wince that briefly crosses his face.

“Christ, I feel old just watching you.” Napoleon gives Gaby a sharp look when she starts forwards, and steps forwards to slip an arm under Illya’s shoulder. “Okay?” he mutters in Illya’s ear, low enough that only he can hear. Illya nods ever so slightly. Napoleon tightens his grip and puts his other hand around Illya’s back. “Ready? Let’s go.”

Illya nearly falls over the moment he’s on his feet. Napoleon grabs him, hauling him up and slinging one of Illya’s arms over his shoulders with an exaggerated grunt of effort. “Jesus, you’re heavy. Come on, before both of us go over and we make right idiots of ourselves.”

“Mission already accomplished in your case, Cowboy,” Illya mutters back with a roll of his eyes.

They stagger inside together. Illya is limping as they manoeuver past the various furniture that perfectly fits the aesthetic of the hotel but serve little functionality, and Napoleon eases him down onto the one sofa that probably won’t make anything worse. “Say the word and I’ll kick them out until we’ve both gotten some goddamned sleep,” he mutters in Illya’s ear, and then steps back. The sudden lack of warmth against his side is strangely disconcerting.

Illya drops his head back against the back of the sofa, and eyes Waverly and Gaby as they settle in chairs opposite. “Where would you like to start?”

“Explain why the  _ fuck _ you were sat in a pool of your own blood, for starters,” Gaby snaps. “Why there were burnt out runes on Illya’s chest. Stasis runes, to be precise. Those are dangerous.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “If improperly used. I assure you, I knew what I was doing. As for why- well, Illya?” He pours a few fingers of whiskey in two glasses and holds one out for Illya. “Your story.”

Illya swallows the glass in one. Napoleon takes it back and pours another, settling on the sofa next to him and passing him the drink again. Illya takes a sip this time, and then leans forwards, resting his arms on his knees. He looks at Waverly first, and then Gaby. “What do you know of pact magics?”

“Pact magic?” Gaby asks. “That’s- that’s superstition. Or if it is real, it was only real a long time ago. Centuries. Any entities that could conceivably hold such pacts have long since died out. If any existed today, we would know. Isn’t that right, Sir?”

Waverly hums. “Not quite, Teller. I have long had my suspicions that Moscow, at least, has something buried beneath it that the Kremlin have had twisted to their service for a long time. There are rumours of people who disappear below and return with unimaginable abilities, all in service of their country. I take it, Kuryakin, that those rumours are not entirely unfounded?”

Illya is a solid line of tension next to him. Napoleon subtly nudges him with his knee. “They are not,” Illya says shortly. “I am one of few. But you suspected that already.”

Waverly inclines his head. On the other chair, Gaby looks to be almost vibrating out her seat with impatience, but she stays quiet as Waverly studies Illya for a long moment. “The burning of those plans would have directly contradicted the orders you were given, Kuryakin. For you, I imagine that had severe consequences. I am quite honestly surprised that you are still standing.”

“We found a work-around,” Napoleon can’t help saying. “We think. Well, given he’s sitting here and not dead out on the balcony, I think it worked, but this sort of magic is...” He waves one hand. “Tricky.”

Next to him, Illya nods. “Oaths supersede orders,” he says to Waverly. “Especially when those orders...those plans would have started a war. No matter who’s hands they ended up in. Giving them to Oleg would only have endangered my country. And I took an oath to protect it.”

“In my expertise, you two absolutely made the right decision,” Waverly says. His voice is mild, but Napoleon can see the relief that thrums through Illya. He relaxes back into the sofa by an inch, and his leg presses into Napoleon’s. There’s the barest whisper of a sensation over the back of his hand. Napoleon resists the urge to check, but he turns his hand over, letting it curl over onto his palm.

“Better?” he murmurs to Illya. He’s seen faint bruising appearing and reappearing on Illya’s cheek the past few minutes as the situation settles into him, though it hasn’t progressed beyond that. Hopefully confirmation that they made the right decision by the person who now holds the proverbial reins will go a way towards stopping Illya from regressing.

Illya hums. Gaby leans forwards, studying Illya, and Napoleon recognises that face. It’s the same face she had been making when she had been studying some of the photographs of Victoria, only a few days ago. Like if she can just reach in far enough, she can pull it all out and fit it back together. He bristles instinctively, and takes a sip of whiskey to hide it.

God, he’s tired. And if he’s tired, Illya must feel like utter shit right now.

“So,” Gaby says, drawing the word out. “There’s an entity below Moscow, that you made a pact with in exchange for your freaky powers, and because of that you have to obey Moscow or what, your magic rips you apart?”

All the tension that had just begun to dissipate slams back into Illya. “Close enough,” he gets out.

“And everyone thought I was weird for enchanting mechanics,” Gaby remarks. She sits back with a huff of laughter. “God, compared to you two what I do is almost normal.”

Napoleon smiles at her. It’s just a shade too sharp to be recognisably human, and has the desired effect of making Gaby blink and shift back slightly, the smile dimming. He shifts his teeth back to more human before he sips at his whiskey again. He’s chipped enough tumblers to learn that one by now.

"And how does dear Gaby fit into this?" he asks. "I assume Peril and I will be partners as we were on this mission, but whilst you have certainly shown your flair for this world, a sleeper agent and one field assignment does not a field agent make. Not to our calibre."

"You spent this entire mission arguing with each other," Gaby says flatly. "It would have all gone to pieces without Waverly. Without me."

"We got the job done," Illya says, his voice sharpening slightly. "It doesn't matter how."

"Well, unless part of the job involves betraying your teammates without their knowledge," Napoleon remarks. He sips at his whiskey, ignoring the muted intake of breath from Illya. He doesn't look away from Gaby.

"I was under orders," Gaby replies, glancing at Waverly, but he seems content to stay out of it and just listen. "I didn't like it, but it was necessary."

Napoleon hums. "I'm sure you thought so."

"Illya doesn't seem to have a problem with it," Gaby says, her voice sharpening. Napoleon sees her instinctive touch of one hand to her sleeve, where her focus is strapped against her forearm. He'll never understand enchanters and their loves for wands. "He understood I was just following my orders."

"Think about that for a moment," Napoleon replies. "About what you've just learned. Try to imagine why Illya, of all the people in this room, would respond the way he did to your suggestion that you were  _ just following orders _ ." Another whispering sensation across the back of his neck, reaching up along his jaw for a moment. Napoleon resists the urge to lean into it.

"Besides," he adds, "he only got chased by dogs. I was the one drugged and strapped down for your uncle to play with at his leisure. If Illya hadn't seen fit to come back for me, I would be in jars."

He sips at his whiskey again, and wills his hand not to shake as he raises the glass to his lips. The warnings of a lifetime are still ringing in his ears.

There are nursery rhymes about what is done to creatures that are caught. He had known as soon as he had opened his eyes to Rudi's smiling face what his fate was going to be.

Illya's hand brushes against his. "Even you, Cowboy, I could not have left to that."

Gaby frowns. "Rudi is- was awful, but you're, well- you would have survived torture. I've read your file."

Illya tenses, again, beside him. Napoleon stares at Gaby. "I'm sorry, you thought it was just torture? Gaby, your uncle was so excited to get a chance to  _ dissect _ me. Study me. Work out what makes a 'shifter tick. Why the hell do you think he  _ wanted _ me?"

Gaby is staring at him, eyes wide. "You are  _ human _ ," Napoleon says, spitting it like he has heard  _ creature _ spat at him so many times. "You might be brilliant, you might be a genius enchanter, but you're still human. You have no idea what it's like, to know there are people out there desperate to get their hands on you so they can split you open. Make you an  _ experiment _ ."

Her gaze flicks to Illya. "He's human too," she says quietly. "Aren't you?"

Napoleon damn sure knows the answer to that one. Creatures know their own kind. "Peril?" he asks anyway.

"Not anymore," Illya says quietly. "Not for a long time."

"I'm too goddamn tired to get into the politics of it, but born or made, doesn't matter. It only matters what  _ is. _ So no, neither of us are human. And you cannot know what that is like." He gives her a thin smile over the rim of his glass. "Creatures-only membership, I'm afraid."

Gaby’s gaze drops to the floor. “I’m sorry. If I’d known-”

“You would have done exactly the same thing,” Napoleon interjects. “Let’s not start this new partnership by lying to each other.”

He feels something whisper over the back of his hand where it’s clenched around his glass, teasing under his fingers until he loosens his grip. Napoleon nods ever so slightly to him.

“Still,” Gaby says. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, chop shop girl,” Illya says, when Napoleon still doesn’t say anything. He looks over to Waverly. “You have another mission for us?”

“A rather tricky affair going down in Istanbul, but we don’t leave until tomorrow.” Waverly glances between the two of them. “I shall have a briefing for you by this evening. Perhaps, and this is merely a suggestion, the two of you take the time until then to get some rest. There are details I’m sure I will have to clarify with the both of you at a later time, but unless there is anything pressing, then I shall be going. Teller?”

Gaby gets to her feet. “I’ll see you both later. You both look awful, for the love of God get some sleep.” She swipes a bottle of scotch off the side on her way out, Waverly closing the door behind them.

Napoleon sags back into the sofa. He swallows the rest of his drink in one gulp, wincing at the burn down his throat. “Well. That went…you know, I don’t actually know.” He stares at the opposite wall. “I suppose being under Waverly’s thumb is better than Sanders or Oleg. He seems slightly more inclined towards cooperation.”

“World peace is a pipe dream,” Illya mutters. He knocks his knee against Napoleon’s. “I didn’t think about Rudi when Gaby tried to apologise to me.”

“It’s fine.” Napoleon leans forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and staring down at the carpet. “I get it. And you of all people know what it is to...well, you know.”

Illya hums. “I was dissected, once.” He drains his drink. “Nazis.”

“It’s always fucking Nazis,” Napoleon mutters. “It’s a goddamn fetish of theirs.”

Illya hums. “I can grow new liver in ten minutes. And snap six necks at once, if I concentrate.”

“Well, that’s got to be some sort of record.” Napoleon drums his fingers against his leg. “We should sleep, whilst we can. Not to insult your obvious skills and everything, but can you get back to your room on your own?”

Illya is silent for a long moment. “It’s in pieces,” he mutters eventually.

Napoleon arches a brow as he turns to look at him. “I’m sorry?”

Illya actually looks  _ embarrassed _ . “It’s...I may have broken some things. When Oleg gave me his orders.”

“Peril, I’m touched.” Napoleon grins at him. “Destroying a room, just for little old me? You know they're going to charge that to mission expenses in the end, that would make Sanders day if it came across his desk." He glances behind him at the bedroom. "You can crash here on the sofa, if you'd like. Just in case there's any residual effects, it's probably best if I'm nearby."

"I nearly died today. I should get the bed."

"Well I saved your life, so really I should be the one who gets the bed." Napoleon contemplates getting to his feet. Maybe after another drink. "Also, it's my room."

"It is the hotel's room. And you are not the one paying for it either, so in no way is it yours." Illya shifts like he's about to get up, but then sinks back into the sofa. He holds his glass out for Napoleon to top up.

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, occasionally sipping at the whiskey. Napoleon feels whispers across his palm, his jaw, even his side where he's sat next to Illya. He doesn't do anything about it.

"I do think Waverly might be better," Napoleon ventures after the last of his glass is finished. "As things go, we could do worse than someone willing to recruit the two of  _ us _ ." Illya gives him a look, and he waves one hand. "You know what I mean. We might be damn good agents, the best of our respective agencies, but we're also liabilities. I'm a collared 'shifter. You're a…" He pauses. "What do you call yourself?"

Illya shrugs. "They used to call creatures like us warlocks, a long time ago, but that's for your Western fairytales. Moscow calls us Red Mages in all the paperwork, or just  _ asset _ . Depends on security classification."

"And amongst yourselves?" Napoleon asks. "No offence, but  _ Red Mage  _ is a bit pretentious."

"Amongst ourselves?" Illya huffs a laugh. “ _ Zhar-ptitsy _ .”

“Firebirds,” Napoleon translates. He hums. “I know that particular Slavic myth, I think. Harbingers of doom to those who capture them, but of good fortune to those who treat them well.” He grins. “That’s surprisingly optimistic for your lot, Peril. But I like it.” He looks over at him, as his silver eyes now steadily glowing. “It suits you.”

Illya drains his glass and sets it down on the coffee table. "We will have to wait and see about Waverly. But he can't be worse than what he had." He shakes his head. "He is not human, for one. That might help us."

"Wait, are you telling me Waverly is a creature?" Napoleon stares at Illya. "Seriously? How the hell do you know that? How did  _ I _ not notice that?”

Illya shrugs. "I can tell. It is faint in him. Maybe two or three generations back. But it is there." He taps at his brand, now lazily circling his wrist. "I just know."

"So you knew about me…"

"The moment I saw you in Berlin, of course. Has to be close proximity, and I can't tell more than  _ not human _ without a lot of effort, but it hasn’t failed me yet."

"Huh." Napoleon leans back, thinking. "Well, it makes sense, actually. I can tell if someone is a 'shifter, even with the collar. Spend enough time with them and I'll know who they are no matter what form. I think it’s an evolutionary thing. Shapeshifter kids fully develop their abilities aged two or three. Imagine the nightmare it would be if a parent couldn't pick their 'shifter kid out of a crowd just because they’d changed forms."

Illya snorts. "I bet you made your mother's life unbearable."

"Oh, I was a riot."

The bottle of whiskey runs dry soon enough. Napoleon gets to his feet with a groan. "Christ, I'm exhausted. And if I'm exhausted, I can't even imagine how you feel."

"Like I nearly died, and then didn't." Illya sits forwards. Even that looks like it took insurmountable effort. He glances up at Napoleon. "Thank you, Cowboy."

"Okay, you're being worryingly sincere, you definitely get to sleep in the bed." Napoleon offers a hand and pulls Illya up. Illya stumbles and Napoleon instinctively grabs him, keeping him up on his feet. "And what for?"

Illya glares at him, as best as he can when he's leant against Napoleon's side. "You know what for."

Napoleon grins, and starts maneuvering them around the furniture towards the bedroom. "Maybe I just want to hear you say it." He can  _ hear _ Illya roll his eyes. A whisper across his side sharpens into a solid jab, and Napoleon slaps it away instinctively. "Play nice, or I won't save your life next time."

Illya shakes him off as they reach the bedroom and staggers the last few steps, sinking gratefully onto the bed. "I'm going to sleep now."

"You're going to take your shoes and jacket off before you ruin the sheets, is what you're going to do." Illya shrugs out of his jacket and Napoleon snatches it from him to hang it up. By the time he's turned back around, Illya's eyes are already shut.

The bed looks really fucking inviting.

Napoleon reaches out and pokes him. "Do you care if I sleep on the other side? I'm fucking knackered, Peril."

Illya grunts. "I'm going to take that as permission," Napoleon says. He takes his waistcoat and button-down off and hangs them up against the wardrobe door. His trousers are beyond saving from the creases, so he might as well sleep in them.

Illya is sprawled out on top of the covers. Napoleon sits down on the other side, and then leans back against the headboard. So far, no stabbing. Or being thrown out of the bed by magic.

God, this bed might be the most comfortable thing he has ever felt.

His eyes slip shut entirely without his permission. He doesn't even care that the sunlight is streaming through the window. Getting up to shut the curtains is an impossible task.

He's nearly asleep when Illya stirs. "Cowboy," he says, his voice rough.

Napoleon rolls over enough just to see Illya. He has turned on his side, watching Napoleon through slitted eyes. "What?"

"Thank you," Illya says quietly. "For staying. When I thought…"

Napoleon pauses. That hadn't been what he was expecting. "I know you lived through the war as well," he says eventually. "Fought in it. We've seen enough people die. If our places had been reversed, you would have done the same."

"I would have been less precious about my clothes," Illya says. His eyes flare silver as he stares at Napoleon. "But yes. I would have stayed to the end."

"You know, Peril, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Illya shuts his eyes. "Quote Casablanca at me again and I will smother you with your pillow."

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is actually the first time that I've employed the 'There Was Only One Bed' trope in fanfic, which considering I have a million words published here on ao3 (what??), is actually a bit of a surprise to me. Yes, they absolutely wake up tangled together, and yes, neither of them talk about it for _days_ , but both of them keep blushing when they think of it and accidentally distracting themselves from Very Important Spy Business. Gaby finds it infuriating, and genuinely considers just locking them in a closet together until they sort it out. Like a professional.
> 
> Like I said above, there might be more in this AU, depending on inspiration, time and how insane my work life is probably going to get- anything you're curious about or things you want to see in future chapters, ask away in the comments!
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much loved.


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